


Bad Days Good Nights

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Golden Lace ficlets, some explicit, some not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner Date

**Author's Note:**

> Golden Lace ficlets: these all take place in the same "universe," so to speak, and might eventually have a vague kind of continuity.

anonymous prompted: 

Golden Lace: She can cook.

Rated G.

~

  His house smelled like spice when he walked in, thyme and pepper and meat. Gold entered the kitchen cautiously, and smiled when he saw Lacey at work with a knife and spatula in hand, her heels kicked into the corner and a dish towel thrown over her shoulder.

                “I didn’t know you could cook,” he said, and she turned and smirked at him, pulling a bottle of the white wine she favored from the refrigerator and splashing some into the frying pan where pieces of steak and green peppers sizzled. Two cutting boards and knives rested on the counter, and a neat pile of the pepper seeds and white ribs.

                “I can do a lot of things,” she said, bending over to retrieve a bag of frozen corn from the freezer, and, he suspected, to tease him. She was wearing a very short black dress, and had left on her black stockings, which covered the heavy muscles of her legs prettily. “And everyone can cook, it’s sort of imperative if you want to live.”

                “Not everyone can cook  _well_ ,” he amended, and snagged her around the waist, pressing his face into her hair. “Mmm, you smell like steak, Lacey,” he rumbled into her ear. She giggled and pushed him off, picking up her wooden spoon and stirring the meat and vegetables.

                “Hungry?” she asked playfully. He ran one hand through her hair and tugged lightly.

                “Not for the steak as much as you,” he admitted. “I should make you stay and cook for me all the time.” She pushed him towards the table, and ordered him to lay it with silverware and plates, turning back to the stove. Gold did as directed, and she poured them both a glass of the remaining wine.

                It was delicious when they finally sat down, the herbs she had chosen flavoring the dish, giving everything an earthy, smoky taste. Lacey leaned over and kissed him deeply when she finished eating, letting him savor the taste of dinner and her together.

                “No dessert,” she said, feigning regret. He pulled her into his lap, her dress bunching about her hips.

                “You’ll do,” he muttered, and wondered if they should bother to leave the kitchen.

 


	2. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous prompted:   
> Cursed!Golden Lace - they end up leaving so many of their clothes and possessions at each other’s places, that they realise they are effectively living together across two different properties.
> 
> I accidentally made it a little sad. Sorry. I’d rate this a hard PG-13? Language and mentions of sex.

Lacey can’t find her green shirt: the silk sleeveless one, with the black wheat pattern along the bottom. It’s not in the laundry, or thrown over one of the chairs in her cramped, messy apartment. She scowls and runs her hands through snarled hair. She’s left it at Gold’s house.

 

“Fuck!” she yells, and glares at two of his shirts, which she hung up out of the dryer, trying to save them from wrinkling, for some reason. Fuck knows the man has enough spare time to iron his shirts. She snatches up the dark purple one and puts it on: it will go nicely with her pale blue jeans, and it’s soft.

                Gold’s stuff is  _all over_  her apartment, she realizes: boxes of his tea in her cupboard, at least three ties on her coatrack, a spare pair of reading glasses on the coffee table. A casual visitor might not guess she lives alone. Her laundry is a good third his clothes.

                She’s missing things, as well: her copy of  _The Orchard Keeper_  is on  _his_ coffee table, her running gloves are probably somewhere in his bedroom, and she keeps a few bottles of perfume on his bathroom counter. And her green shirt isn’t the only article of clothing she’s missing.

                Gold nearly drops his cane when she passes him on the street, and he comes and finds her later, sitting idly behind the counter of Storybrooke’s record store (the only establishment less frequented than his own shop), and practically yanks her from her stool and shoves her against the wall.

                “You. Can’t. Just. Do. That,” he hisses into her ear, hands heavy on her hips. She snorts and lets him breathe into her hair, since it calms him down.

                “You left it in my apartment,” she reasons, and he runs a finger down her throat.

                “If you wear my things, you’d better expect to have me take them off you,” he snaps, and he’s actually a little angry, underneath all the flirting and lust. She wrenches out of his grasp and sulks back to the counter, scowling.

                “What’s the big deal, Gold?” He tightens his mouth and draws himself up, and there it is: the cold bastard he really is, when he’s not pretending to be sweet with her.

                “I’m not your lover,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Don’t flaunt what we have.” She sneers, showing him her upraised finger, the other hand pointing to the shop door.

                “Fuck you too, you pretentious tight-assed secretive fucker,” she hisses, and he bows and smirks.

                “Eloquent. This is why you don’t have a prince in shining armor.” Lacey wants to throw the stapler on her desk at his head, but refrains: she doesn’t want to bend the poor tool around his damn hard head.

                “The day I  _need_  anyone, especially you, I’ll stop swearing and wait for the fucking prince.” He closes the door quietly behind him, and she wonders if he heard the last part. Maybe she should leave all his things at his doorstep and see how he likes it.

                She won’t, of course, because he’ll come around tonight and they’ll fuck this argument into nothing, like all the rest, and he might take some things back, but he’ll leave something as well. The cycle never ends.

 


	3. Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Golden Lace through cursed Storybrooke residents’ eyes. Rated M.

                 “I swear I’m not joking, and I saw what I saw.” Ruby tossed back her shot and pushed the bottle over to Ashley, who poured herself one, hand a little clumsy after four drinks in less than an hour.

 

              Ruby had the tolerance of a wild animal, while she thought hers more like a small rodent’s, but she would keep pace for a little while at least. Ruby had invited her over, after all, and provided the booze, and the assurance that her grandmother was out for the night.

                “Gold?” Ruby nodded, fumbling for the television remote and changing the channel: they’d spent a few hours trying to get through a romantic comedy, but she preferred horror, and Ashley resigned herself to a night of odd dreams, between the movie and the drinking.

                “I mean, it’s not too farfetched. Too cold to be my type, but I guess someone opportunistic could get on that.” She rolled her eyes, propping her feet up on the end of the couch.

                “There’s a difference between being willing to get with Gold for gain and leaving a mark on his neck,” she pointed out. “Ugh, I can’t even imagine being with him.” Ruby nodded slowly, taking a swig directly from the bottle and picking up the bag of chips.

                “I would kill to meet whoever has the guts to  _bite_  him,” she laughed. Ashley shuddered, taking the bottle again.

                “I’m going to be sick if you keep going on about it,” she protested.

                “Well, just keep an eye  out for it, the next time you see him.”

——

                Graham was on his usual Friday night patrol past the small, seedy section of Storybrooke: the Rabbit Hole was nearing closing time, and he wanted to make sure no one stumbling from the bar tried to drive away.

                Lacey French was in one of her usual skimpy dresses and heels, and walked carefully, if unsteadily, past his cruiser, waving cheekily at him.

                “No trouble tonight, Lacey?” he asked her. He’d brought her in a couple times for minor offenses: being belligerently drunk, causing a public disturbance, but she never held it against him. She shook her head, smirking.

                “Not unless you’re looking for any, Sheriff. You know, I have a double bed in my apartment.” Her voice had turned low and sultry, and he was impressed at her dedication to flirting with him, for she was completely sloshed. He smiled slightly.

                “I’m… with someone,” he said uncomfortably, because he wasn’t really ‘with’ Regina, even in her bed. She only smiled, leaning on the rolled-down window of the cruiser.

                “Uh-huh, so am I, and that doesn’t mean anything.” He blinked, wondering who Lacey could be with.

                “It should,” he said.

                “Who says the playthings can’t play with each other?” she asked, and he pushed her away gently, unnerved by her words.

                “Go home and get some sleep,” he advised. She gave him a smile that he recognized, somehow.

                “And you have fun with our mayor,” she returned, and sauntered off, pulling her coat around her shoulders. He started, staring after her in the mirror. It was only as he turned his attention back to the bar that he realized where he knew that smile. It was a perfect replica of the one Gold wore when he was sure he had the upper hand.

——

                Pongo had woken him up at one, for some reason, whining to go outside. Archie, realizing the dog was in genuine distress, let him out, wrapping himself in a bathrobe for warmth, planning a visit to the vet as soon as the sun rose. Maybe some infection?

                Pongo had wandered into the wooded park area behind his house, and Archie heard him bark.

                “Oh, Pongo,” he groused, wandering into the thicket of crape myrtle and birch after the beast, and froze at the sound of another voice.

                “You better get that dog away before someone finds us.” A woman’s voice, shaky and breathless, followed by a low laugh.

                “It’s the doctor’s dog, that’s all. He doesn’t gossip.” That was Gold’s voice. Archie felt his face heat, caught between the impossible choices of leaving Pongo to bother them or go up and collect him. “Focus, dearie,” he grunted, and Archie heard a gasp. “Dog probably wonders who spilled half a liquor store in a field, you souse.” More giggles followed, and Archie backed up as quietly as he could, reasoning that he could whistle from his backyard.

                “Shut up and fuck me,” were the last words he heard, and then he was back in his garden, whistling loudly. Never had he been so gratified to see Pongo bounding into the yard as he was at that moment.

                He closed the door firmly, thinking that a few drinks for himself wouldn’t go amiss.   

 


	4. Morning Glory and Honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary Margaret talks about flowers and symbolism with Lacey. Golden Lace, rated M for swearing and innuendo.

                 He’s cruel on purpose, sometimes, and she knows it, and yet it still hurts when she’s not ready for it. This morning he kicked her out of his bed and house at five in the morning, practically dragging her to the door and shoving her clothes into her arms. He said something about someone coming to work on the pipes, but she knows he did it to upset her.

 

               She’s at work now, the CD player in the shop playing something soft, her head cradled in her hands. She had no coffee, and she’s hungover, and unshowered. She’s wearing the same thing she was last night, and resting her face on the worn wooden counter for a few hours is the most appealing thing in the world.

                It’s not to be, though, because the door swings open and she lifts her head, watching Mary Margaret Blanchard walk inside on dainty feet, demure in her knee-length white skirt and pink cardigan. Lacey’s in blue stockings, with a short, tight sparkly black skirt and low-cut blue blouse. Her hair is done up in a messy bun, mostly to hide the fact that she hasn’t brushed it since before she went out last night. There’s a dark red mark over one breast, where Gold sank his teeth into her skin last night.

                “Good morning,” the schoolteacher says, her voice meek, a little nervous. Lacey nods to her, blinking away some of her exhaustion.

                “Anything I can help you with, let me know.” She spreads her hands and twists up her mouth, unable to pull the mocking note out of her voice, even for Mary Margaret, who’s sweet.

                “Oh, I will, thank you!” Her response is earnest, and Lacey just wants to be left alone, but she props her hand on her chin and watches Mary Margaret turn through the dusty, cramped corners of the shop, frowning down at what she saw.

                “Those are such pretty flowers,” the other woman says, looking at the end of the counter. Lacey can’t stop from curling a lip at the jelly-jar vase, full of flowers that range from wilted to fresh.

                “I suppose,” she says. Mary Margaret smiles wistfully at the blossoms.

                “Still, it’s nice to have something bright. Do you pick them?” Goddamn, the woman is too chatty. The kind of person who’d talk you in line at the post office, or in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, just because she was trying to be friendly.

                “No,” she says, widening her eyes and raising her brows for emphasis. Gold brings them, in some sort of twisted gesture, one or two at a time, never when anyone can see him do it.

                “When I was a little girl, I used to be really interested in all the secret meanings of flowers. I thought it was romantic and clever: that ladies would look at their bouquets and uncover secret messages. Like a spy story and a romance at the same time.” Mary Margaret’s sweet, bland voice is a little excited, the first Lacey’s ever heard it that way. She takes another sip of water, wishing for the bottle of ibuprofen that used to be in a drawer of the counter.

                “Go on, then,” she challenges. “What do my flowers mean?” Mary Margaret blinks at her tone, but peers interestedly at the blossoms.

                “Morning glory and honeysuckle,” she says. “They both grow on viney plants.” She twists her mouth, apparently wondering about that, then blinks and returns to the world with a start.

                “Morning glories for love in vain, fruitless love. And honeysuckle for love’s bonds.” Lacey laughs out loud, head screaming when she throws it back, but she can’t help it.

                “That’s just perfect,” she snorts. “ _Christ_.” Mary Margaret smiles uncertainly, and Lacey waves a hand. “I can’t explain why. It’s just fucking  _perfect_.” It is: there’s no way Gold doesn’t know, because it’s exactly the type of shit he knows about. He loves symbolism and irony, in his house full of books and knickknacks and paintings, and of course he’d do this.

                They don’t love, they fuck, but she guesses there’s no flower for fucking, so this will do. Fruitless, and inescapable.

                Mary Margaret steals some of the morning glory, tying it with a piece of thread, muttering something about taking it to the hospital, and Lacey returns her face to the counter as she leaves, shoulders slumping.

                She should ditch him: refuse to put up with his temperamental bullshit and obsession with secrecy. She won’t.

                Instead, she throws the remaining flowers into the trash and determinedly plucks a handful of dandelions from the ill-tended strip of grass in front of the shop, filling the jar with those. She likes yellow, and they’re brighter than the long-petaled blossoms Gold brought.

 


	5. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Golden Lace smut: Lacey goes down on him.
> 
> Rated NC-17. I realized I have a thing for Gold biting her. Don’t look at me.

           “Lacey, lay off,” he mumbles. She sniggers, running her fingers over his chest, tracing patterns, and he can feel arousal beginning to pool in his belly again. “I have to sleep sometime.”

 

                “Sleep in your shop,” she says casually, running a shimmery silver-painted nail down his thigh. “Or sleep now. You don’t have to do anything.” The bedside lamp is on, and he looks lazily across at her, sitting up next to his prone form. Her eyes are bright, untired, despite that he’s just fucked her twice in a row, rough and fast and filthy, and she’s got a bruise forming on her back where he bit her as he took her from behind. All she does is brush her hair from her face and nip at his hipbone. His cock twitches, and she smiles wickedly.

                “Just close your eyes, Gold,” she purrs, moving her glittery fingers down his ribs, just grazing his stomach. “Don’t pretend you don’t want it.” She dips her head down and licks at his cock, just a quick flick of her tongue, and it jerks. More slower, heavier licks, and he’s hard again, smiling at the sight of her lips closing around him, then breathing heavily at the feeling of her tongue washing around him.

                She goes slowly, cupping his balls in one hand and stroking them with a gentle thumb, while her mouth moves up and down him, far too slowly to bring him to any release, but building up the pressure inside.

                “Faster,” he groans, writhing a little under her touch, hands grasping the sheets. “More, Lacey, please.” She hums in delight, running a finger of her free hand up his length when she moves her mouth off.

                “I like you this way,” she says, and rubs his head with the tip of her tongue. She usually doesn’t want to suck him off, but she’s smiling and laughing now, enjoying the delicious torment she’s inflicting. He closes his eyes and moans, hips thrusting up to meet her, but she only presses an arm across his belly to still him somewhat, and rational thought leaves his brain. She’s still mouthing him, adding flicks of her tongue, the hand holding his balls still stroking them, and he can barely breathe, reduced to moans.

                “Lacey, please,” he manages to rasp, and she sucks a little, instead of just moving up and down.

                “Like that?” His hips twitch.        

                “ _Yes_.” She returns her mouth to him, swirling her tongue more strongly, her hand leaving his stomach and gripping the base of his cock, squeezing while she slides her tongue over the head of his cock. He’s pulling at the bedclothes in earnest now, trying to move against her mouth but not daring to, lest she stop.

                “I like you begging for me,” she whispers, breath gusting over his hard length, and he moans again, unable to keep quiet. “I like you undone.” Her words bypass his brain and go straight to his groin. The tightness in his balls is unbearable, but she keeps teasing him, licking and mouthing and sucking, but never enough.

                “Lacey,” he hisses, trying to reach for her hair, but she bats his hand away, dabbing at the leaking head of his cock with the tip of her tongue.

                “You’re supposed to be resting, remember?” she chides, and takes him whole in her mouth, giving a few hard sucks that have him slamming his head against the pillow and stifling shouts. “Ask me,” she orders, and lightly squeezes his balls.

                “Let me come,” he begs, unheeding of his pride, conscious only of the throbbing ache in his cock and balls, and she smirks, kissing his stomach before taking him into her mouth and sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks around his length. Her hand rubs the base of him, and she sucks, tongue pressing him against the roof of her mouth, and he comes with a strangled yell, hips jerking. She doesn’t gag or pull away, only closes her eyes and swallows his release, and the sight of her throat moving as she drinks his cum is going to sustain him through every night he spends with his hand instead of her.

                She licks her lips and straightens, and he growls, using his legs to knock her back down next to him.

                “You dirty tease,” he whispers, thrusting his hand between her legs, finding her wet cunt easily and sliding two fingers inside her, thumb moving gently against her clit. She twitches herself, now, but still grins at him.

                “You liked it,” she says, then whimpers at the insistent moving of his fingers and thumb. “Oh!” She alternates between whimpers, moans, and little cries as he fingers her, enjoying the way  _her_  hips jerk helplessly against his hand.

                “You’re still a filthy little minx,” he hisses, pressing harder and faster at her, and feeling her muscles clench around his fingers. She cries out softly when she comes, legs shaking, fluid gushing over his hand, and he bites at her shoulder, worrying the flesh with his teeth. “But I did like it.”

                He falls asleep easily, feeling more sated than he has in his life, and when he wakes up, the feeling of Lacey brushing his ruffled hair from his face is no more than a dream.


	6. Role Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> delilahbe prompted: Golden Lace: He comes back from a lunch break and Lacey is behind the counter. When he asks what she is doing, she comes toward him and he realizes that she is wearing an elegant suit and walking with a walking stick. Apparently she wants to switch roles for a while.

He usually didn’t leave his shop for lunch, but worked with a sandwich and a thermos of cold tea: simpler, fewer people to deal with, and more efficient. But today he had gone out to have a hot meal at Granny’s, and frowned when he realized he must have left the shop unlocked.

And there was a trespasser, though not an entirely unwelcome one: he would recognize Lacey’s upswept brown hair anywhere, if her lemony perfume didn’t give her away first.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he said sharply, though internally he was hoping that she had come to offer a  _different_  kind of dessert. She stepped out from behind the counter and he swallowed: different would be one way to describe the situation. She had found a rather demure blue blouse, paired it with a pair of black pants and a blazer, and finished it off with a silk scarf around her neck. What caught his eye first, though, was the stick in her hand: a cane from his house, he thought, one of his extras. She leaned forward onto it and gave him a challenging grin.

"I thought I’d stop by. Hope my clothes are office appropriate." He swallowed, tried to collect his thoughts. Lacey, dressed like he dressed, was distracting. He loved her short skirts and heels and ragged t-shirts, but something about how she looked now pricked at the possessive part of him.

"Can’t get enough of me?" he said, aware that his voice had dropped somewhat. She raised an eyebrow and responded deliberately.

"I think you can’t get enough of me as you. Is that narcissism?" She stepped forward, put the cane behind his legs, and jerked his head towards her for a kiss.

"Probably," he said, pulling away. Lacey put her hand around his tie and walked backwards into his office, dragging him along.

"You like to take, Gold, but for now, I’m you, and I’ll do the taking." She shoved him: roughly, the way he pushed her, and he thought he liked it nearly as much as she did, and he half-collapsed into a chair with a groan. Lacey carefully unknotted her scarf and trailed the soft edges against his face, then wrapped it around his eyes.

"Lacey," he protested, wanting to see her. She placed a finger over his lips.

"Quiet," she cautioned, sinking onto his lap. “Can’t have you damaging my reputation."


	7. Library Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> delilahbe prompted: 
> 
> Golden Lace: He is browsing the library when he hears a strange sound. He peers through a bookcase to find Lacey with a very racy book in one hand and the other buried under her skirt.  
> Golden Lace, rated NC-17. With cane smut.

               He was looking for something light to read: too much of his time was spent buried in tomes on law or antiques, he thought. Gold missed the days when he could lose himself in a novel, something unreal and green and bright, so he was looking through the dusty shelves of Storybrooke’s dilapidated library on a whim.

 

                The librarian was out for lunch somewhere, and the lights were half off: patrons were few and far between, and the run-down building needed painting and papering and a new roof. There was no point in wasting electricity lighting the place beyond what was necessary.

                Gold had thought he was alone—and maybe that was because he was usually alone, and got into the habit of expecting it—when he heard an odd noise and glanced over at the next row of shelves. Moving as silently as he could, which was very quiet, but also very slow, he heard it again: a breathy moan, a rustle of paper and cloth. He found the source of the noise two rows over and smirked. Of course.

                Lacey French, with a book open in her hand and the other beneath her short, ragged-hemmed cotton skirt, pressing between her thighs, if he judged correctly. She was half in the shadows, a little light on her book and head, but most of her body dim to his eyes. Still, he could see her strong legs twitching a little as she moved and moaned. He stepped forward, letting her hear the click of his cane on the floor, and she jumped and snapped her head around. When she saw who it was, she only smiled and moved her arm again, and the expression that twisted her face had him half-hard quicker than he had thought possible.

                He pressed himself against her back, moving her hand from between her legs and wrapping his hand around her wrist.

                “Interesting reading?” he asked softly, and drew her hand up so he could lick the juices off her fingers. She shivered, and pushed her hips back against him.

                “You’re interrupting me,” she complained, and he nudged her now-free hand up to the book as well. A touch between her legs let him know that she had shed her knickers at some point, and she was wet, hot, and nearly dripping. She must have been close. He ran a finger lightly over her clit, and she mewled and jerked her hips forward. He glanced at the open book: nothing he recognized, but a quick scan told him it was filthy.

                “What would our dear old librarian think of this trash, Lacey?” he scolded, and leaned his cane against the shelf to squeeze her breast with his other hand. “She’d likely die of a heart attack if she read some of the books in her own library.” Lacey only snorted and tried to wriggle against his hand. He touched her clit again, lightly, teasing, just once.

                “Come on, Gold, just give it to me,” she said, voice a whine. He chuckled. How long could he hold her at the edge? She was greedy, whatever they were doing, and he liked to make her come, but what would she do if he held her back? He returned his attention to her book.

                “ _His cock was hard and hot inside Belle’s mouth, thick enough to fill her and nearly brush her throat. He was wet with her fluids, and now with her spit, as she slid him in and out of her mouth with one hand while the other rubbed his dropped bundle of textured cords against her most aching parts.”_ Lacey made a pathetic noise and he thrust one finger inside her: not what she wanted, but she squeezed around it anyway. “Like it when I read to you, eh? We’ll have to try this again sometime.” He licked his lips and continued. “ _Her master hadn’t satisfied her when he had decided he wanted her mouth instead of her cunt, and as she sought her own release, she thought she would make him pay, at some later date, when he was at her mercy.”_ He laughed against Lacey’s hair. “Are you aching, Lacey? Do you want something to rub against you besides my un-obliging hand?” He added another finger but refused to touch her clit again, an idea bubbling up inside his mind. “Answer me,” he said, when her only response was to take a shaky breath and grind against his digits. “You can call me master if you like.”

                “ _Yes_ ,” she moaned, and her fingers were shaking around the sides of her book. Gold squeezed her breast again, tweaked her nipple with his fingertips, making her cry out. “Please, finish me, please,” her voice was a needy whine, and hearing it was getting him harder. “Gold, please.” He picked up his cane and brought it between her legs, rubbing the handle against her clit. Lacey moaned, much too loudly for the library. “ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, lower, and dropped the book to clutch at the shelf. “Oh- _oh-_ “ Her words were lost in gasps, and her hips thrust forward, knocking against his arms. He removed his fingers from her dripping cunt and slid in the handle of his cane instead, moving his soaked fingertips over the pearl of her clit, slowly and firmly.

                “Whisper in the library,” he chuckled into her ear, and she whimpered her pleasure into her arm, burying her face in it to muffle her noise. “Are you going to come hard?” he asked, anticipating the moment of her pleasure greedily, and she nodded. He was still moving his fingers slowly over her, trusting in the rising volume of her moans that he was doing it right. Usually she was too impatient for this kind of teasing, and so was he. But in the half-lit library, shrouded in thousands of others’ lives, in paper and dust, they had time.

                She came at last with a long, low moan and he felt liquid pour from her, over his hand and down the length of his cane and her legs. Lacey leaned against the shelf for a long moment, then straightened with a rough laugh, looking amazed at the mess she’d made over herself.

                “I haven’t done that in  _years_ ,” she said, and grinned at him like a cat that had swallowed a whole jug of cream, then a bird. “That was fucking amazing.” Gold grasped his slippery cane and raised his eyebrows.

                “My pleasure,” he said, feeling smug that she’d actually told him. She eyed his hard-on with a critical eye.

                “Let’s fix that, shall we?” she suggested, and unzipped his trousers before he could properly react. She moved her hand through the wetness between her legs and wrapped her dripping fingers around his cock. He stifled a groan as he heard the door open with the return of the librarian, and Lacey held a finger to her lips.

                After this, he would need to find some books like Lacey’s, perhaps. He could read to her.


	8. Out in the Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> delilahbe prompted: 
> 
> Golden Lace: he catches her getting a little too handsy with another man and decides to let her know what is and isn’t allowed.   
> Rated NC-17.

                 He catches her when he’s not even looking for her: it’s a Tuesday night, and he’s only out so late because he thought earlier that the pleasant spring air would make up for the pain in his knee as he walked. He was wrong, so he’s in a foul mood, leaning all his weight onto his cane and feeling his ruined joint twinge and tighten with every step. There’s a shortcut of sorts behind the gas station and the run-down bar called the Dragon’s Belly. The place is a dive, and broken glass litters the grass and gravel that passes for the back of the establishment.

 

He picks his way over uneven ground, scuffing his shoes against stray bricks from the crumbling wall that used to keep the two businesses separated. Music blasts from behind the shutters, something aggressive with electric guitar. Gold hisses as thorny vines and cockleburs attach themselves to his trouser legs. Clearly the shortcut was a stupid mistake.

                There’s no light behind the bar besides that which filters through the battered shutters, but despite the low light and loud noise, he hears and sees the two figures leaning against the dirty brick wall of the Dragon’s Belly. Maybe he’s just always on alert for her, for the low never-earnest giggle and the click of cheap heels, and that’s why he turns sharply as he notices. She’s pressed against the wall, her arms thrown around some young man’s neck. She’s wearing a short skirt, grey-silver with thin horizontal black stripes, and it hugs her hips and what little of her legs it covers tightly. The man is wearing jeans and a sweaty t-shirt, one hand under Lacey’s loose, low-cut blouse and the other squeezing her arse through the skirt.

                Gold’s vision goes red and splotchy, as Lacey exchanges a kiss with the idiot, and it feels like someone’s driving a knife through his head. Moving through a sharp, primal, and previously unknown rage, he grabs the other, taller man’s shoulder and yanks him backward.

                “What the hell, man?” he slurs, and his muscled arms and torso won’t do him any good now, he’s so drunk. He stinks like the cheapest beer, and Gold drives the end of his cane into his stomach with a sneer, and he staggers backward.

                “Get lost,” he orders through his teeth, and the sot stumbles off, no doubt heading back for another drink. Lacey’s pouting at him, folding her arms and trying to catch her breath, and he presses the cane across her shoulders, pinning her with both hands to the wall.

                “Gold—“ she wails, alarmed, and her breath is vodka and berries. He leans forward and steals a kiss from her, roughly, biting at her lips and forcing his tongue inside. Then he turns and spits onto the rubble, weeds, and dirt they’re standing in, fancying he can taste the other man on her mouth.

                “What are you doing?” he hisses, the red in his eyes hardly dying at all, and she reaches up to push against his cane, wincing.

                “Out for a drink, what does it look like?” she snaps angrily. He leans forward, putting his cane back beneath his hand to lean on.

                “This is a drink? Kissing some drunk  _boy_  behind the shittiest place in town?” She’s not put off by his anger, getting back in his face.

                “What’s it to you? You never want people to see us, you don’t have any right to demand any kind of—fidelity.” That she’s right makes no difference.

                “Let them see this,” he growls, and kisses her again, slowly, carefully, running his tongue along the roof of her mouth the way she likes. She shivers against him, half-snarling as she responds, and he smirks. “The whole bar can come out and watch you melt for me if they like.” He nibbles at her neck, growling as he rings her neck in bite marks. Lacey puts one hand on his shoulder and grips his lapel with the other, giving a helpless little moan. “Don’t kiss other men in front of me,” he says roughly, gripping her shoulders.

                “Don’t be such a  _dick_  all the time and I won’t want to,” she retorts, and he puts one hand on her thigh, stroking the rough covering of her stocking.

                “Don’t let other men touch you,” he insists, moving his hand to rub between her thighs. She hisses and shudders against him, a pleased little smile forming on her face. She bites her lip, looks up at him, and tilts her head.

                “Are we  _jealous_ , Gold?” she purrs, then her breath catches as he moves his hand inside her flimsy knickers. “Oh—“ He twitches his hand again.

                “Come on, Lacey,” he mutters, pressing his face against her cheek. “You’re _mine_.” She turns them so they’re leaning against the wall, facing each other, and undoes his belt.

                “I don’t want to be anyone’s,” she protests, unzipping his trousers and wrapping a hot hand around his half-hard cock. He thrusts without meaning to, and moves his hand against her insistently.

                “I’m yours,” he half-whines into her ear, and she rubs him, stroking him until he stops talking and just moves his own hand over her.

                They both gasp quietly and half-smirk at each other, though he can see the true smile of pleasure stealing its way over Lacey’s face. Moth shadows flit over her pale skin, and he hears glass crunch under his cane as he braces it in the scraggly vegetation. Lacey’s spirits-and-strawberries breath gusts over his face as she starts to moan softly, hips rolling under his hand. The loud music emanating from the bar will keep anyone from hearing her, and he’s having trouble concentrating himself now, as she moves her hand faster and faster, making his hips snap towards her, and she’s grinning into his eyes, and someone they’ve ended up with their foreheads all but pressed together.

                She rubs her thumb around his head just as he flicks hard at her swollen clit, and they come at the same time, he stifling a deep groan and she laughing through her moans. She takes her hand off his cock and grips his hair, bringing his lips up against hers. His own damp hand he uses to cradle her face, liking the way moisture smears across her flushed skin.

                “I’d buy you a drink,” he jokes, “but I don’t think we should go in.” He’s spilled himself down the inside of her black-stockinged leg, the stain, at least, marking her as his for the rest of the night. Even if she won’t promise him to not touch other men, she let him bring her off ungently against a dirty wall, and kissed him after.

                “We can go in,” she says, breaking off the kiss and straightening her skirt. He does up his trousers and buckles his belt, uneasy now that she’s called his bluff. Meeting his eyes, she runs her finger along a little of his seed and brings it up to her mouth, eyes dancing. He groans as she deliberately sucks his cum off the tip and adjusts his tie.

                “Fine,” he growls, wondering if it’s possible to get drunk by association. They walk inside together, presentable but for his hair, which wouldn’t settle, and the streak down her leg, which she doesn’t even try to hide. A few heads turn, and he tries to get used to the horrible music that plays far too loudly, carefully ignoring any stares that come their way. Someone snickers, and one extremely drunk man tries to give Gold a clap on the shoulder, only to withdraw it after Gold smacks it with his cane.

                “This place is a dump,” he mutters when they’re sitting in a corner, Lacey tapping her foot to the beat of the current song. “I think the walls are rotting.” She steals a sip from his whiskey and runs her hand along his thigh.

                “Take me home?” she says suggestively, and he lifts one side of his mouth.

                “Now we’re talking, dearie.” 

 


End file.
